


Now Or Never

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Beefy Bucky, Bucky's a ghost, Ghosts, M/M, Mentions of Death, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sort of? - Freeform, im sorry, no stan lee cameo this time, the latin is all from google translate, there's meme references people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-01 14:43:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11488530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Steve Rogers didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t, he swore, and laughed at his friends when they held their breaths while passing by graveyards.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is a product of half random inspiration, half procrastination. I was in Italy listening to Halsey's Now or Never and it just... came to me. Like, I had no control over it. I had to write it down. Let me know if you want more, because I can give y'all more! Also... all of the Latin is a product of Google translate. I know, I know. A sin. Let me know if there's anything I should fix!
> 
> (If you're wondering, yes. I wrote this to procrastinate writing the next chapter of my WIP. Whoops?)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! Comments and kudos are love! ♥

Steve Rogers didn’t believe in ghosts. He  _ didn’t _ , he swore, and laughed at his friends when they held their breaths while passing by graveyards.

 

He’d been of this opinion ever since he’d read a blog post debunking a bunch of the big-name ghost hunters’ so-called ‘evidence’. Those sounds, orbs, and unexplainable audio interference? Horseshit. It was all fabricated in the editor’s office, and from then on he held that opinion and expressed it as often as he could. It was different, he assured everyone, than extraterrestrial life, the theory of which he’d always been a big advocate for. The only evidence of ghosts people had were fuzzy video and audio recordings, second-hand accounts from people in bumfuck, USA, and way too much hope in something Greater Than Thou.

 

It was all logic, he convinced himself. If ghosts were real, wouldn’t they be  _ everywhere _ ? Technically, wouldn’t everywhere be haunted, because statistically there are more dead people than alive on earth? Who knows if there’s some prehistoric dumbass buried under someone’s house; if ghosts are real, shouldn’t he be lighting matches and waking you up at midnight with his fascinated grunting?

 

He’d read the theories. He’d done his homework. The believers said that maybe (and it was always maybe) ghosts became malevolent, or even simply present in our plane of existence when they died with ‘unfinished business’. Steve also claimed horseshit on that, because that would mean that anyone who died unfairly would become a ghost, and because that’s not the case (as evidenced in the fact that not every single soldier in a war haunts the battlefield; no matter how they died, there’s always only a few) then that logic suggests that there must be someone or something making the choice as to who haunts and who doesn’t. Which is to bring up an entirely different discussion, but also nullifies the opposing argument. If someone must be pulling the puppet strings, but also that someone contradicts the existence of the puppet in the first place, you’re going around in circles, deeper and deeper into the hole you just dug yourself.

 

Steve gets very heated about these things, especially over coffee. Which is why Clint is now regretting asking.

 

“Dude, chill. People are  _ looking _ , calm your tits, man. Remind me never to bring it up again, jeez.” Clint waves an apology to a mother by the window giving them the stink eye, then ducks down to take a sip of his dark roast.

 

Steve sighs. “Sorry. You know how I get about things I have an opinion on.”

 

“And here I thought that was just the Trump Administration and cookies ‘n creme Oreos.”

 

“It’s Oreo flavored Oreos, Clint.”

 

“I know, man. Fucked up. Now, big question of the afternoon. What would Nat want for her birthday? And, more importantly, what can I get her that she won’t hate me for?”

 

Steve smiles, recalling last year’s gift. Clint hadn’t consulted him, and needless to say, it didn’t go very well. “Well, you could buy some rare Russian ammo from the deep web, or some rare Russian vodka from the even deeper web. Or occult stuff. She loves to mess with it. Maybe that doll that kills people? That’d be a riot at parties.”

 

The sarcasm practically drips from his mouth as he says it.

 

“Dude, don’t even joke about that. Shit creeps me out. But yeah, maybe a ouija board?”

 

“Go for it,” Steve says with a shrug. “Just don’t expect me to play.”

 

-

 

It was only by the powers and limitations of time that Steve wasn’t going back and slapping his past self for getting into this.

 

The way he saw it was this; whether you believe in ghosts or not, it’s never a good idea to invite malevolent energy into your living space. Like, Steve never fucks with that. Ever. He might not believe but he also doesn’t have a death wish.

 

Until Nat manages to get a few shots of vodka into his system.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

It’s him, Sam, Nat, and Clint around the board, each of them with their right index and middle fingers on the planchette. Steve feels pretty tipsy, not quite drunk but definitely not sober either. Steve hasn’t spoken a word, but the others have been trying desperately to get  _ something  _ out of the board. So far, nothing. Just as Steve had always told them, not that he was going to rub anything in their faces. Him? No,  _ never _ .

 

(Except right now. He’s totally gonna rub this in later.)

 

He’s about to get up when Sam gives him a nudge. “C’mon, Rogers, give it a try. Not like there’s any spirits following  _ your _ skeptical ass around, anyway.”

 

Steve gives him a  _ look _ but sits back down. He wracks his brain, searching for something to ask that they haven’t already tried. He decides to go for something simple.

 

“How are you doing?”

 

For a couple of seconds, nothing happens. Then, slowly, the planchette moves to  _ B _ , then  _ E _ , then  _ N _ , then finally stops on  _ E _ . 

 

Everyone holds their breath. Steve can feel his heart in his stomach, and next to him Nat has gone rigid.

 

“Latin for  _ good _ ,” she says, voice devoid of emotion.

 

“Please tell me that was one of you guys,” Sam starts. “Please.”

 

Steve steels himself and asks another question.

 

“Who are you?”

 

The planchette spells out  _ I _ ,  _ A _ ,  _ C _ ,  _ O _ ,  _ M _ ,  _ U _ ,  _ S _ .

 

Nat still hasn’t moved, except where her fingers have been following the planchette. “An ancient Roman name. Like a gladiator or something. It’s the root of the name James.”

 

Steve exhales. He’s honestly not drunk enough for this, but has an idea. “Guys, since it’s only answering to me, I want to make sure it’s not one of you messing with us.”

 

Sam nods. “So you think you wanna do this alone?”

 

“Not entirely. Just, like, sit on the couch or something. Just me on the planchette.”

 

“How do we know you’re not fucking with us?” Clint chimes in, thoroughly freaked out by now. He’s already across the room in an armchair, wrapped in a blanket.

 

Steve glances at him. “I took French in high school, Clint. I’ve never spoken a word of Latin in my life.”

 

That seems to satisfy everyone. Nat simply takes her hand off, not moving from her spot, knowing Steve will need a translator. Sam sits on the couch behind him, in front of Steve.

 

He puts his left index and middle fingers on the planchette, then takes a breath to calm himself down.

 

“Okay, Iacomus.” He looks to Nat. “Is that how you pronounce it?”

 

She nods.

 

“Okay. Where are you from?”

 

_ I M P E R I V M R O M A N U M _

 

“Roman empire,” Nat whispers.

 

Steve nods. That was sort of obvious, but it’s not like he’s gonna call the ghost out on it.

 

“What city?”

 

_ P O M P E I A N O _

 

Steve can figure that one out well enough on his own. He lets out a low whistle.

 

“What do you do there?”

 

_ P U G N O _

 

“I fight.” Nat’s responses are more and more breathy with each answer that’s given. 

 

“Who do you fight?”

 

_ S E R V O R U M  E T  B E S T I A S _

 

“Slaves and beasts.”

 

Steve gulps. So, a gladiator then. That certainly doesn’t give him any peace of mind. But there’s one question that he feels he’s gotta ask.

 

“Why me? Why only answer to me?”

 

The planchette hesitates for a moment.

 

_ N O N  R E S P I R A R E M _

 

Nat’s eyebrows furrow. “He said ‘not breathing’. What could -”

 

Steve takes a sharp inhale. His heart starts beating faster, because he knows exactly what the spirit’s referring to.

 

“Three years ago my family and I went to Italy and toured Pompeii. I had an asthma attack because of all the dust. It was one of the worst I’d ever had.” Steve looks at the planchette, then to the space where a person would be sitting across from him. (Coincidentally right at Sam’s crotch but he wasn’t gonna be weird about that, especially not when a ghost just told him about something he’d never mentioned to anyone.)

 

“What do you mean? Were you there?”

 

The planchette moves quickly to  _ Yes _ .

 

“Why would you follow me after that, then?”

 

_ A D  C U S T O D I A M _

 

Nat gives a non-believing huff. Steve looks at her, brows raised.

 

“He said ‘to keep watch’.” 

 

Steve makes a  _ huh _ sound. Addressing Iacomus again, he asks, “So, ever since then, you’ve just been… following me around?”

 

The planchette moves to  _ Yes _ , then hesitates before spelling  _ N E S C I O  C U R _

 

“He doesn’t know why.” Nat’s hunched forward at this point, also looking at the empty space across from them.

 

Steve searches his mind for the info on ghosts he hasn’t tossed away as garbage. Which unfortunately is pretty much all of it, but he eventually remembers something.

 

“Ghosts are usually attached to their bones, right? What if Iacomus just… switched his attachment to me? Felt like he was needed then stuck around because he couldn’t leave?”

 

Nat shrugs. “That’s the most likely scenario. Ask him how old he is.”

 

Steve sighs. “How old are you?”

 

_ 2 9 _

 

“So… born in 50 AD,” Nat figures. 

 

Steve takes a second to process all of this. His world has been completely turned upside down in the span of an hour, not only that he now knows ghosts are real but that one has been  _ following him for three years _ . Like, holy shit. Did he have to make a lute music station on Pandora now? Learn Latin? Bake full roast pigs? What the fuck is he supposed to do with an ancient Roman gladiator who he can’t even see?

 

Wait.

 

“Can you make yourself visible? Do you know how?”

 

He knows his friends are about to yell at him, they’re practically all moving to get away, but the planchette moves simply to  _ Yes _ . No gladiator in sight, but Steve’s heart picks up.

 

“Do you want to do it now?”

 

Steve stares at the planchette, which doesn’t move, and begins to think he’s done something wrong. Just as he’s about to ask something else Nat pokes him  _ very hard  _ in the side. He looks up.

 

Right there, sitting in front of him, is a man in a loose toga. He’s quite transparent, but very obviously  _ there _ , and he’s looking intently at Steve.

 

Who’s just about going into cardiac arrest because  _ holy fuck _ .

 

Steve’s eyes are first drawn to the muscles exposed by the toga, curving up and down his arms and shoulders. His skin is tanned - surely from spending a lifetime in the Pompeian sun. He has scars, too; a large one around his left shoulder and a few smaller ones across his clavicle and chest. His face is like something out of a movie; Steve doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who fits the whole ‘ _ sculpted like a god _ ’ description more perfectly. And shit, how ironic is that? What gets Steve, though - even more than his thick, shoulder-length mane of mahogany hair - is his  _ eyes _ . The blue in them is piercing, almost intimidating as they stare relentlessly at Steve. He can only imagine being a prisoner of war forced to fight this man, and having those eyes be the last thing you see. Steve wonders how good of a gladiator Iacomus was; how famous, even. Because with those eyes? He could knock a man dead with just a gaze.

 

Steve clears his throat. Iacomus raises his brows.

 

“Uh. You can speak English?”

 

The man shakes his head. “Only in death can I speak your tongue. I know not where it comes from; nor do I prefer it to Latin.”

 

Steve nods. “That’s fair, I guess. Uhm. How long can you stay like this?”

 

“A good while longer. I’ve maintained my visible form for several hours on occasion.”

 

“Okay. Do you know what year this is?”

 

“I know only that it is an era without the Caesars, and that is enough to know that I am far out of my time.”

 

Steve remains quiet about that. Who is he to educate a fucking ancient Roman on everything that’s happened in the past 2,000 years? He barely passed history class; and how is he supposed to bring up the topic of Vesuvius if Iacomus asks? Will he want to know about Jesus? Does he even have a concept of how much the world has changed?

 

This is too much for a Saturday night. Way, way too much.

 

Steve looks up to Iacomus, who still hasn’t looked away. The other man speaks up, his voice filling the room like a sweet-smelling fog.

 

“I’m sure I will have questions in the future, but for now, I leave you to care for your friends, two of which seem to be… incapacitated.”

 

Steve looks over to Clint, who’s sitting unmoving on the armchair, eyes wide as saucers. When Steve looks back, Iacomus is gone. 

 

-

 

It takes everyone a good ten minutes to figure out what the hell just happened. The first one to move is Nat, who leans back against the wall behind her. Clint is still sitting forward, wide-eyed, and Sam seems to have either passed out or fallen asleep on the couch.

 

Clint’s the first to speak up.

 

“So that wasn’t just me? You all saw that too?”

 

Steve nods. “I talked to a ghost.”

 

Nat looks at him. “Yeah, you did.”

 

“Holy shit.”

 

-

 

Nat puts the board in a locked box in the top shelf of a closet in her apartment. Clint donates his Poltergeist, Exorcist, Annabelle, Amityville Horror, and Paranormal Activity DVDs to Goodwill. Sam (who, apparently, passed out as soon as Iacomus made himself visible - Steve doesn’t blame him), bless his heart, goes with Steve to the library.

 

Together they pour over every shred of information they can find on ancient Rome. They even ask for one of the private rooms in the back, where they set up their laptops and notebooks and research materials. After Steve had filled him in on what little Iacomus had said when he was visible, as well as sketching out the outfit he was wearing, Sam had gone online and found thesis papers, videos, archaeological reports, even chat rooms pertaining to life in the Roman empire, especially Pompeii. Steve, naturally better with paper and books, read as much as he could of the library’s physical resources. It’s a Sunday, so they’re both off, but they work all through the day, only stopping for lunch at a sandwich place across the street. 

 

By closing, they have a Word document seven pages long on the life of a gladiator in ancient Pompeii. With pictures.

 

Steve prints it out and brings it home. Sam, not willing to deal with the paranormal any more than he has to, goes home and makes Steve promise to update him if anything happens.

 

At his apartment, Steve makes himself comfortable on the couch. He grabs a plate of leftover spaghetti and starts to read aloud what he and Sam put together.

 

“Ancient Pompeii was a coastal city and a center of trade on the Mediterranean Sea. It was well-known for its agriculture, as the soil was very rich and good for growing olives and grapes. Many wealthy Romans also had homes there, and often visited on summer vacations.”

 

Steve looks around as he eats a forkful of spaghetti. No Roman to be seen.

 

“Pompeii was well known for its promiscuity and violence, and its gladiator shows often became excessively rowdy. One such instance was in 59 AD, when Pompeiian fans broke out in fighting against fans from the nearby town Nuceria. This caused such an uproar that the stadium was closed for ten years afterward. Other such examples include the br-”

 

“What was the name your lady friend mentioned? The one my given is the predecessor of.”

 

Steve nearly falls off the couch. He nearly drops his spaghetti and  _ just barely _ restrains himself from recreating the “I coulda dropped my croissant!” vine right then and there. He manages it by reminding himself that he’s in the company of someone who would never understand the reference. Unfortunate. But he does drop the packet, and once his heart isn’t in his ass any longer, he flops back down onto the cushion. He takes a breath. A really, really deep breath.

 

“Please don’t ever scare me like that again, pal.”

 

It’s weird to just hear a voice and no movement. No breathing, no shifting clothes, just a voice. 

 

“I apologize, Steven. Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Now what was your question?”

 

“I asked what the name was that your lady friend said mine was the root of. The name people in your time use.”

 

Steve furrows his brows. He hadn’t really given that tidbit of information much thought. “Uh, I think it was James. Yeah. James.”

 

He hears a soft  _ hmm _ from across the room and Steve looks over. Sitting against the opposite wall is Iacomus, legs straight out in front of him. He seems to be deep in thought.

 

Steve sits up, sets his spaghetti on the coffee table, and picks up the packet. Iacomus takes a moment to respond, his head lazily rocking back and forth on the wall.

 

“I think I’d like to be called that. I am no longer the man I once was, and should henceforth have a new title. James. Do you think it suits me?”

 

Iacomus - now James, apparently - makes eye contact with him. Steve shrugs. “You can be called whatever you want.”

 

James shakes his head. “This I know. I genuinely want your opinion.”

 

“Well. In that case, yes. You look like a James.”

 

James nods. “By the way, I was there.”

 

Confused, Steve gives him a look.

 

“The riot. At the stadium. I was nine years old, and there with my father. His brother was killed in the stampede.”

 

Steve whistles. At that, James waves a hand. “He was a drunkard. Deserved it, for all he did to the women in his company.”

 

“How can you talk so easily about his death?” Steve asks, genuinely curious. “Like, shit, man, he  _ was _ your uncle, after all.”

 

James chuckles. “Even before I joined them, I was a close companion of the dead. Death was like a brother to me, present throughout my life. My uncle was one of many I knew to perish before his time.”

 

Steve stays quiet at that. It’s odd, how James knows he’s dead, but remains a spirit on earth. Steve guesses it’s just by process of elimination that James eventually figured out what was up with himself. Still, shouldn’t that bring peace to his soul? Send him up to the man upstairs?

 

Jesus christ. Steve decides to switch topics, even though every topic is heavy when talking to a ghost. 

 

“So, do you, like, know anything about what’s happened in the world? Since… you know…”

 

James smiles kindly. “Since my death? Not much. Like I mentioned, I know Rome fell, but I know little else. That there were wars, many of them, and that Nazarene became quite popular.”

 

Steve nods. “Like, super popular. And there were these two wars that happened not that long ago, both within like a couple or three decades of the other. They’re called the World Wars. Let me tell you, James, that was some crazy shit.”

 

James smiles again. “Then tell me. We have plenty of time, after all.”

 

Steve moves down to sit cross-legged in front of him. “Okay, so there was this archduke - wait, first there were a bunch of countries who got formed somehow after Rome fell. And…”

 

James finds himself paying more attention to the way Steve’s eyes light up when he tells the stories than he does to the stories themselves. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done it. I've made a second part. I've fallen down the rabbit hole. Barnes Manor fans, don't fret, Chapter 10 is in the works. I just couldn't get this one out of my head. (Also? if any of my readers do art, I would never be opposed to seeing how you guys envision my stories!) Anyway, hopefully you enjoy! Not sure how many chapters this'll have. Probably four or five.
> 
> To expect: more of me being a nerd about history, more fluff between our two favorite boys, more ghostly shenanigans. Also Steamboat Willie.

James - he never fails to smile when he thinks of himself as _James_ , the name somehow seems more fitting of him than Iacomus ever did - can’t believe how much more clear everything is now that Steven has re-introduced him to the world.

 

There is so much to learn, so much to see in this new world - and from what Steve tells him, it really _is_ a new world. An entirely new continent they never knew about before, called America. Steve told him so much, and yet also told him he’s barely scratched the surface of what’s happened.

 

James follows Steve around, through the city as he carries out his normal life. James has always done this, but it’s different today, somehow. Before, he felt disconnected, like he was asleep upon a raft in a stream. Now, he is awake and walking beside Steve, looking at the bright lights and strange people and fast-moving chariots that somehow don’t need horses. He smells odors he could never have dreamed, sees colors his mind couldn’t have imagined. It’s overwhelming, and he nearly bursts with the need to ask Steve questions.

 

When they get to his place of work, Steve sits down in front of a device that glows. It’s flat in front and shows images and words. Steve moves a small object that seems to connect to the images on the device, as they shift and change as Steve manipulates the object.

 

Looking around, Bucky sees that they’re in a room alone. There’s a window, but the building is so high up that James can’t imagine anyone glancing up this far.

 

He manifests himself, a silent action Steve doesn’t hear. Looking at the glowing device again, he speaks.

 

“What is that, Steve?”

 

The blond man starts, immediately spinning around in the chair he reclines in.

 

“James! You - you can’t just _do_ that, someone could see -”

 

“I made sure we were alone.”

 

Steve sighs. “Yeah, right now, but if my boss were to walk by… I couldn’t explain you looking like… that.” He gestures at James’ body, draped in the toga he’d been wearing when…

 

“Your boss? As in, a master?”

 

“No, no, more of a... an official. A higher-up. A manager. They didn’t have those in Roman times?”

 

“Well, yes, but rarely were employees kept in a room like this. That was reserved for prisoners.”

 

Despite James’ rising concern, his words draw a laugh from Steve. The man becomes giddy, his hand thrown over his stomach.

 

“I’m no prisoner, James,” he says as he becomes coherent again. “This is my office. It’s a private place for me to do my work, where I won’t be disturbed.”

 

“What exactly do you do, that requires such seclusion and such… odd equipment?” James gestures at the device, which was what he was interested in originally.

 

“I’m an animator. This -” he gestures at the device “- is a computer. It helps me create moving pictures.”

 

“Moving? How does that happen?”

 

Steve sighs, running his hand through his hair. “Well, about eighty years ago this guy called Disney figured out that if you draw a bunch of pictures but make them slightly different, you can create the illusion of movement.” He raises his hand, fist closed. “For example, if you wanted to make it look like my hand was opening, you’d paint a picture of this, then this -” he opens his hand fractionally, “then this -” Steve opens it wider, “and so on until you have a dozen or so images of a hand opening. Put those together and flip through them at a high enough speed and it looks like motion.”

 

James is awestruck at this new invention. “So that is what you do, then? You draw such images?”

 

Steve shakes his head. “That was a long time ago. Now, we use these devices to make it look more realistic. I could show you, sometime. Maybe tonight, I could put some animations on the TV?”

 

“What’s a tee-vee? How do you place these images on it?”

 

Steve grins. “You’ll see, James. It’s pretty amazing.”

 

-

 

Steve was right. It _is_ amazing.

 

That night, when they got back home, Steve went to a cabinet full of strange, thin boxes lined up like books. James watched as he opened the box to reveal a thin, silver disk, which he removed and brought over to the ‘TV’ - a device similar to the one at Steve’s place of work. It was bigger, though, and James couldn’t see the object Steve had used to manipulate the images on the face. He didn’t pay attention to how Steve put the disk in the device - by then, it had lit up and was displaying color. James had settled cross legged on the floor, back against the large chair Steve had sat in the previous night.

 

Once Steve is finished, he steps back. James’ eyes are drawn immediately to the - the front of the device, for which he does not have a name yet, and he sees the words ‘STEAMBOAT WILLIE’ flash in white on a black background. That disappears, and what he sees next _floors_ him.

 

A strange character stands at the wheel of a boat. It _moves_ , as if it were standing inside the TV. James gets up (his physical self visible again) and walks over to where the TV sits on a stand. He looks behind it, taps on the screen, tries to see how this is possible. There is simply no way that little creature is moving and yet not present in the room. Steve, standing to the side, laughs at him.

 

“James, I told you. It’s all pictures.”

 

He looks to Steve, an awestruck expression on his face. “But - but it looks real! That - that little…”

 

“Mouse. His name is Mickey Mouse.”

 

“Mouse. That little mouse -”

 

James is cut off but the sound of a whistle. He steps back, staring incredulously at the moving images. The mouse is whistling, a foreign yet joyous melody flooding the room. James watches as he taps his foot to the beat, as parts of the boat join in the festivities. The music is so strange yet so happy, and James can’t describe the feeling it fills his chest with. He sits back against the chair - more of a padded bench with a back, really - and watches as a story unfolds, as a larger creature emerges from below-decks to tell Mickey Mouse off.

 

He doesn’t think he blinks once through the whole thing.

 

James laughs at the silliness of the story, gasps as the boat leaves the female mouse on the dock, smiles as Mickey makes music with the animals on the boat. It’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. Once it’s finished, he looks to Steve, a giddy look undoubtedly spread across his face.

 

“That was - it was beyond anything anyone ever imagined. We - my close friends and I - would talk about the future, but it was always that our empire would conquer the Persians, and decimate the Franks, that from the sea we knew to the far reaches of the north there would be nothing but Roman rule. We would discuss someday seeing Cairo, the exotic lands of the desert. That our emperor might someday reach the mystical lands of the far East, but even those were daydreams and impossible.

 

This, this is more than that. This is an entirely new way of being. We never imagined chariots without horses, never dreamed of a boat not powered by sails. We never entertained the thought of watching something somewhere other than where it was happening. I want to learn about this world, Steve. What else is there?”

 

Steve looks slightly taken aback by this confession. James admits it was a bit forward, but he’s feeling too thrilled right now to care. Steve thinks for a moment, looks over to the cabinet containing the boxes, then casts a questioning glance at James.

 

“We could either do _Moana_ or the moon landing. Your choice.”

 

James thinks he might faint. “The _moon landing_?! You mean - you mean to tell me something landed on the _moon_?”

 

Steve shakes his head, now smiling even broader. “Not something. Some _one_.”

 

-

 

After they’ve finished watching his copy of CBS’ broadcast of the moon landing, Steve looks at James. The ghost is sitting frozen in awe, or shock, maybe, staring at the black television screen. Steve notices something a bit off.

 

His toga is more white than it was earlier in the day.

 

It’s a subtle change, but it’s a change nonetheless. No longer is James so translucent that Steve can make out the objects behind him; now, he can only just see the outline of the couch. He’s still looks like a spirit, as the color of his skin and hair is slightly muted, and as you can still fuckin’ see through him, but Steve wonders if spending time in his physical form is affecting him somehow. Steve really hopes it isn’t negatively.

 

James stands up, pulling Steve out of his thoughts. The man, noticeably taller than him, faces Steve and looks down. He seems to be mentally struggling with something.

 

“I have many questions, but for now I’ll ask just this one - what of the gods? These images prove that the Moon is a place, but what of Juno? Of Luna, and Diana, and Selene? I cannot conceive of a world where humanity raises themselves to such equality with the gods and come out of it alive. How have they allowed this?”

 

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Before we discuss this, let’s sit down, shall we?” He gestures at the couch, and James nods. Together they sit at opposite ends.

 

Steve sighs. “So you believe in the R- in the gods, right? Like, Zeus an-”

 

James interrupts him quickly. “Jupiter. Zeus was of the Greeks.”

 

“Right. So, like Jupiter and -” Steve begins listing planets, because fuck if he knows any of the other Roman gods, “- Neptune and Venus? You believe in them?”

 

James nods. “Of course.”

 

“See, the thing about it is, that isn’t particularly the case anymore. Christianity is kind of the reigning belief around the world right now. It gained a ton of popularity in Rome and after the empire fell, so did… so did belief in the Roman gods. So, those people who went to the moon didn’t go up with Luna and Juno in mind, they went up thinking of the God of Jesus.”

 

James’ nose crinkles, as if in disgust. Steve hopes to god (no pun intended) that James wasn’t one of those Romans who would throw rocks at Christians and cheer when they were fed to lions and shit. It’s like 9:00 at night, Steve can’t deal with that right now.

 

“So… so people now just, aren’t aware of the gods? They prefer this… this Jesus?”

 

“No, no, they know of the gods, they just see them as ancient deities that the Romans believed in. Not figures to be worshiped today.”

 

James is silent. Steve wonders if he’s offended him, and hopes this isn’t the end of their… friendship? The end of whatever the hell this relationship is.

 

After a minute, James speaks, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

 

“I always thought of Christians as traitors, as worse than the dirt underfoot. That was the consensus of the city. They were secretive, and refused to sacrifice for the gods along with the rest of us. They claimed to eat the ‘body and blood’ of their god - how were we to see that as anything less than cannibalism? But worst of all, they refused to honor the emperor. He was merely a mortal to them, which simply wasn’t - which we _believed_ to be untrue. It was an offense of the highest degree.”

 

Steve thinks about that. He’s about to respond, but James isn’t finished.

 

“Now that you tell me these things, I realize that to have such conviction in something that you give your life for it - to believe so strongly - is honorable and respectable. Hundreds of Christians died at the hands of lawmakers, and the hands of men like -” his voice catches, a rare expression of vulnerability, “- of men like me.”

 

Steve wishes he could reach out and take James’ hand, comfort him even if it’s a small thing, but he can’t. So, instead, he gets up, and James looks at him.

 

His eyes look as if he’s been crying. Steve puts up a hand.

 

“I’ll be right back. Lie down, sit back, just make yourself comfortable.”

 

He leaves to go to the stereo, which is on the other side of the couch on a stand under a window. Underneath, he has a box of CDs, ranging from Bach to the Beatles to the Hamilton soundtrack. He chooses one, puts it in, and presses play. Just as he’s turning up the volume, the soothing tones of the _Trouble Man_ soundtrack flow through the speakers.

 

“Sam gave me this after my ma died. Said it was the best way he knew to take your mind someplace else.”

 

Steve comes around and sees James with his head on the arm of the sofa, hands clasped together on his stomach. He seems to be listening intently, eyes closed, and Steve watches as his features soften as the song continues.

 

Tired, Steve sits on the floor in front of where James lay, and as he leans his head back against the cushion he falls asleep wondering if he’s imagining the slight warmth coming from above him.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr!  
> [planetarybucky](planetarybucky.tumblr.com)


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